of soul, when he reflected that his present
misery was chargeable only to himself. A few nights had given him the
aspect of a much older man.

For a few seconds he stood glancing round the quarter-deck of the
Talisman with a look of mingled curiosity and sadness. But when his eye
fell on the form of Henry he turned deadly pale, and trembled like an
aspen leaf.

"Well, Gascoyne, my--my--_friend_," said the youth, with some
hesitation, as he advanced.

The shout that Gascoyne uttered on hearing the young man's voice was
almost superhuman. It was something like a mingled cheer and cry of
agony. In another moment he sprang forward, and, seizing Henry in his
arms, pressed him to his breast with a grasp that rendered the youth
utterly powerless.

Almost instantly he released him from his embrace, and, seizing his
hand, said, in a wild, gay, almost fierce manner:

"Come, Henry, lad; I have somewhat to say to you. Come with me."

He forced rather than led the amazed youth into the boat, sculled to the
schooner, hurried him into the cabin, and shut and locked the door.

We need scarcely say that all this was a matter of the deepest curiosity
and interest to those who witnessed it; but they were destined to remain
with their curiosity unsatisfied for some time after that.

When Henry Stuart issued from the cabin of the Avenger after that
mysterious interview, his countenance wore a surprised and troubled
expression. Gascoyne's on the contrary, was grave and calm, yet
cheerful. He was more like his former self.

The young man was, of course eagerly questioned as to what had been said
to him, and why the pirate had shown such fondness for him; but the only
reply that could be got from him was, "I must not tell. It is a private
matter. You shall know time enough."

With this answer they were fain to be content. Even Corrie failed to
extract anything more definite from his friend.

A prize crew was put on board the Foam, and the two vessels proceeded
towards the harbor of Sandy Cove in company.

Henry and his friends went in the Foam; but Gascoyne was detained a
prisoner on board the Talisman. Montague felt that it was his duty to
put him in irons; but he could not prevail on himself to heap
unnecessary indignity on the head of one who had rendered him such good
service; so he left him at large, intending to put him in irons only
when duty compelled him to do so.

During the night a stiff breeze, amounting almost to a gale, of fair
wind sprang up, and the two vessels flew towards their destination; but
the Foam left her bulky companion far behind.

That night a dark and savage mind was engaged on board the Talisman in
working out a black and desperate plot. Surly Dick saw, in the capture
of Gascoyne and the Foam, the end of all his cherished hopes, and in a
fit of despair and rage he resolved to be avenged.

This man, when he first came on board the frigate, had not been known as
a pirate, and afterwards, as we have seen, he had been treated with
leniency on account of his offer to turn informant against his former
associates. In the stirring events that followed, he had been
overlooked, and, on the night of which we are writing, he found himself
free to retire to his hammock with the rest of the watch.

In the night, when the wind was howling mournfully through the rigging,
and the greater part of the crew were buried in repose, this man rose
stealthily from his hammock, and, with noiseless tread, found his way to
a dark corner of the ship where the eyes of the sentries were not likely
to observe him. Here he had made preparations for his diabolical
purpose. Drawing a flint and steel from his pocket, he proceeded to
strike a light. This was procured in a few seconds; and as the match
flared up in his face, it revealed the workings of a countenance in
which all the strongest and worst passions of human nature had stamped
deep and terrible lines.

The pirate had taken the utmost care, by arranging an old sail over the
spot, to prevent the reflection of the light being seen. It revealed a
large mass of oakum and tar. Into the heart of this he thrust the match,
and instantly glided away, as he had come, stealthily and without noise.

For a few seconds the fire smoldered: for the sail that covered it kept
it down, as well as hid it from view. But such combustible material
could not be smothered long. The smell of burning soon reached one of
the marines stationed on the lower deck, who instantly gave the alarm;
but almost before the words had passed his lips the flames burst forth.

"Fire! fire! fire!"

What a scene ensued! There was confusion at first; for no sound at sea
rings so terribly in the ear as the shout of "Fire!"

But speedily the stern discipline on board a man-of-war prevailed. Men
were stationed in rows; the usual appliances for the extinction of fire
were brought into play; buckets of water were passed down below as fast
as they could be drawn. No miscellaneous shouting took place; but the
orders that were necessary, and the noise of action, together with the
excitement and the dense smoke that rolled up the hatchway, produced a
scene of the wildest and most stirring description.

In the midst of this, the pirate captain, as might have been expected,
performed a prominent part. His great physical strength enabled him to
act with a degree of vigor that rendered his aid most valuable. He
wrought with the energy of a huge mechanical power, and with a quick
promptitude of perception and a ready change of action which is denied
to mere mechanism. He tore down the bulkheads that rendered it difficult
to get at the place where the fire was; he hurled bucket after bucket of
water on the glowing mass, and rushed, amid clouds of hot steam and
suffocating smoke, with piles of wet blankets to smother it out.

Montague and he wrought together. The young captain issued his orders as
calmly as if there were no danger, yet with a promptitude and vigor that
inspired his men with confidence. Gascoyne's voice was never heard. He
obeyed orders, and acted as circumstances required; but he did not
presume, as men are apt to do on such occasions, to give orders and
advice when there was a legitimate commander. Only once or twice were
the deep tones of his bass voice heard, when he called for more water,
or warned the more daring among the men when danger from falling timber
threatened them.

But all this availed not to check the flames. The men were quickly
driven upon deck, and it soon became evident that the vessel must
perish. The fire burst through the hatchways, and in a short time began
to leap up the rigging.

It now became necessary to make arrangements for the saving of the crew.

"Nothing more can be done, Mr. Mulroy," said Montague, in a calm voice,
that accorded ill with the state of his mind. "Get the boats ready, and
order the men to assemble on the quarter-deck."

"If we were only nearer the island," said Gascoyne, in a low tone, as if
he were talking to himself, "we might run her on the reef, and the
breakers would soon put out the fire."

"That would be little consolation to me," said Montague, with a bitter
smile. "Lower the boats, Mr. Mulroy. The Foam has observed our
condition, I see. Let them row to it. I will go in the gig."

The first lieutenant hastened to obey the order, and the men embarked in
the boats, lighted by the flames, which were now roaring high up the
masts.

Meanwhile the man who had been the cause of all this was rushing about
the deck, a furious maniac. He had wrought at the fire almost as
fiercely as Gascoyne himself, and now that all hope was past, he
continued, despite the orders of Montague to the contrary, to draw water
and rush with bucket after bucket into the midst of the roaring flames.
At last he disappeared, no one knew where, and no one cared; for in such
a scene he was soon forgotten.

The last man left the ship when the heat on the poop became so great
that it was scarcely possible to stand there. Still Montague and
Gascoyne stood side by side near the taffrail, and the gig with her crew
floated just below them. The last boatful of men pulled away from the
burning vessel and then Montague turned, with a deep sigh, and said:

"Now, Mr. Gascoyne, get into the boat. I must be the last man to quit
the ship."

Without a word, Gascoyne swung himself over the stern, and, sliding down
by a rope, dropped into the boat. Montague followed, and they rowed
away.

Just at that moment Surly Dick sprang on the bulwarks, and, holding on
by the mizzen-shrouds, took off his hat and cheered:

"Ha! ha!" he shrieked, with a fiendish laugh, "I've escaped you, have I?
escaped you--hurrah!" and with another wild shriek he leaped on the hot
deck, and, seizing a bucket, resumed his self-imposed duty of deluging
the fire with water.

"Pull, pull lads! We can't leave the miserable man to perish," cried
Montague, starting up, while the men rowed after the frigate with their
utmost might. But in vain. Already she was far from them, and ever
increased the distance as she ran before the gale.

As long as the ship lasted the poor maniac was seen diligently pursuing
his work; stopping now and then to spring on the bulwarks and give
another cheer.

At last the blazing vessel left boats and schooner far behind, and the
flames rose in great flakes and tongues above her top-masts, while the
smoke rolled in dense black volumes away to leeward.

While the awe-stricken crew watched her, there came a sudden flash of
bright white flame, as if a volcano had leaped out of the ocean. The
powder-magazine had caught. It was followed by a roaring crash that
seemed to rend the very heavens. A thick darkness settled over the
scene; and the vessel that a few hours before had been a noble frigate
was scattered on the ocean a mass of blackened ruins.